


A Lonely Night In Brussels

by orphan_account



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c., RPF - Fandom
Genre: F/M, bed sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 14:37:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18412655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When her assistant's mistake leaves Theresa without a hotel room in a hostile city, she has no choice but to share with a certain gardening leftie.





	A Lonely Night In Brussels

The flight from Brussels had been long, exhausting, and punctuated by the flash of phone cameras, the rabble of commoners clamouring into first class to bother her. Theresa just wanted to sleep, and ignore the pressures of the impending Brussels conference, the horrors that awaited her in the meeting tomorrow. She just wanted a night to herself, to relax in the bath, and get a little naughty. And not in the fields-of-wheat way.

But the baggage claim was late. Security, who were usually so efficient in their dealing of world leaders, had clearly not anticipated the influx of powerful people arriving at Brussels. Her publicist had failed to warn her of the other UK leaders attending the conference, inviting themselves to speak EU committee despite failing to obtain a parliamentary majority for their parties. Disgraceful.

 Nonetheless, she finally escaped the endless white swathes of the airport, leaving her suitcases for an intern to handle. Finally, in the solitary of her taxi, she could take a deep breath, imagine herself back in the vicarage of her childhood. Surrounded by wheat, the open sky, and no immigrants.

All too soon, however, the trip was over, and the driver was holding her door as wide open as the Irish border. With a weary strut, she made her way into the lobby of the Hilton, the closest decent hotel to the absolute farce they called EU Parliament.

As she went to check in, giving her fake name of _Nikola Sturgeon_ as per usual, the clerk gave her a blank stare.

Buggar.

Her assistant hadn’t booked her a room.

“Check again.” Theresa demanded, refusing to believe the incompetence of her staff.  

 No luck. Even as the check-in clerk apologised, in her stupid accented English, Theresa was crumbling inside. There was no hotel for her here, and every other reputable place in the city would be occupied with the press, clamouring to cover yet another pointless Brexit discussion.  

Just when she was about to resort to phoning Macron, begging for accommodation and perhaps a _little more_. After all, he’d been so kind in offering her leverage, political and _otherwise._

Then, as was about to dial that dreaded French number, she heard the heavy tread of a Londoner behind her. She didn’t even need to turn around to recognise the leader of the opposition: Jeremy Corbin.  

“Theresa!” he exclaimed, clapping a meaty hand onto her shoulder with no regard for her total exhaustion. Nonetheless, she forced a polite smile. Maybe this ‘stupid man’ could help her out after all.

She offered the warmest smile she could offer, hoping it didn’t come out – as it usually did – as a thin-lipped grimace. As she explained her predicament, in rambling and vague terms, he started to return her uncomfortable smile.

“I have a double room,” he offered, key card dwarfed in his clammy, manly, aged hand.

She feigned indecision, tapping at her phone, trying to avoid his wise, anti-Semitic eyes and his handsome, poorly-shaven face. Finally, she agreed, knowing she had no bargaining power left under his intense gaze.

Of course, Jeremy only hadn’t booked a suite, merely a hotel room. Still, even surrounded by a subpar quality accommodation, Theresa found herself drawn to him, sneaking glances as they ate their room service meals. As she slurped up oysters, Theresa could feel his attraction to her, to her gaunt face and cold expression. She knew how this night would end. With the two of them entwined, in a wonderful, sovereign union.

The red wine was flowing, and Theresa felt filled with a joy usually exclusive to her solitary nights listening to Dancing Queen.

As the night wore on, her lust grew. Suddenly, she found couldn’t take yet another story about Jeremy’s big vegetables. It was nearing 10pm, and she had an early start the next morning. She had to get this night _in session_. She called the maids in to clear the plates, before telling Jeremy she was ‘ready for bed’.

With her luggage gone, she was forced into the only nightwear she had left. A nightie, which barely covered her knees. Theresa had never imagined she would have company, what with Philip left at home to tend to the bins, and matron certainly wouldn’t have of having a boy in her room, least of all in this state of undress. Still, she wasn’t in boarding school anymore. She was an adult. Free to make the decisions _she wanted_. Her party be damned.

He was magnetic. Despite his communist leaning, she found herself drawn to Jeremy. There were rumours in the chamber about the enormity of his manifesto, and she was fascinated to find out for herself. A wine addled night with Diane Abbott had revealed far more about the Labour leader than Theresa had ever wanted to know, and she’d been hoping to create a “coalition” with him ever since. She couldn’t afford a No Deal tonight.

*

All that time spent on his knees in the allotment had clearly done Jeremy good, as Theresa learnt, just before they cuddled into bed at 11:15pm. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined the way this night would pan out. Jeremy offered her nothing quite as hard as the Brexit offered by Jacob Rees-Mogg, but she was satisfied nonetheless. She cuddled up to the Labour leader, just as she had tried to cuddle up close to the white middle class, and into a nightmare-filled sleep.

One thought, however, entwined itself in her nightmares like no other. That perhaps there had been a little socialist in her after all.

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry for what I have done here today


End file.
